September 6, 1992, Sunday.
The first light of dawn spills over the castle towers, washing the gray stone of Hogwarts in a soft, golden hue. I stretch lazily and regard my reflection in the mirror with satisfaction. Considering it's Sunday, I select a particularly vibrant ensemble: a bright orange robe with yellow trim, something that would look absurd on any other wizard, but on me? Magnificent. The kind of magnificent that would make even the sun jealous.
Today's goal: to investigate what's said to be the school's greatest cheat code, the Room of Requirement. But one must always think ahead, if Dumbledore happens to be watching (and with that twinkle in his eye, he usually is), I want to leave a narrative trace of my discovery, which I also wish to include in my next book.
What I'm going to do is actually quite simple, but how do they say? Show, don't tell, so you will have to be patient and see what I do.
I tuck my favorite griffin feather quill behind my left ear and set off for the Quidditch pitch. The morning air is crisp and faintly carries the scent of wet grass and broom polish. From what I recall, today is Gryffindor's first practice of the term, the legendary slug-vomiting incident. It would be a crime for a man of culture such as myself to miss such an event.
By the time I arrived, I'd nearly missed the show. The Weasley boy already has his wand out, pointing at a pale-faced Draco Malfoy.
"Slugulus Eructo!" Ron shouts.
A burst of sickly green light sputters from the middle of his cracked wand instead of the tip. There's a loud pop, and then chaos. Ron is thrown backward, landing unceremoniously on the damp grass.
The students freeze at the unexpected twist of events, the spell's light still hanging in the air like mist, until Draco bursts into delighted laughter just as Ron gags and spews a large, glistening slug onto the ground.
And there it is, the flash of Colin Creevey's camera immortalizes the moment.
I take that as my cue. My cloak sweeps dramatically as I stride forward, every step perfectly measured. "What do we have here?" I say, my voice warm but firm. "I trust no one's dueling before breakfast? A bit of rivalry is fine when it comes to Quidditch, but there's no need for curses. And…" I gesture delicately toward the puddle forming near Ron's knee "why, pray tell, is Mr. Weasley attempting to eat slugs?"
Hermione, bless her earnest heart, rushes to explain. "Professor, it's not like that! He was hit by a slug-vomiting curse!"
"And who," I ask in mock gravity, "would dare cast such an undignified spell on a classmate?"
Hermione fidgets. She looks torn, her conscience and respect for authority figures battling with her loyalty. "He… he hit himself, sir. His wand is broken and it caused the spell to backfire." She glances apologetically at Ron, who groans out another slug and mutters him a quiet, "Sorry."
"But he was defending me," she blurts. "Malfoy started it by calling me a…"
Harry, awkward but brave, finishes for her. "He called her a Mudblood, Professor. I don't really know what that means, but it sounds bad."
I let my expression shift into controlled horror. Slowly, I turn to Malfoy, fixing him with a cold stare. "Mr. Malfoy," I say softly, "that kind of word should never leave your lips. Especially not toward a lady." I allow the silence to stretch before adding, "Forty points from Slytherin."
The collective gasp is delicious. Malfoy's face drains of color; the Slytherins look mutinous. Ron, for his part, looks vindicated, until he hurls up another slug.
"Ordinarily, I'd assign detention as well," I continue, "but I think Professor Snape should hear of this personally. You'll have to accompany me, Mr. Malfoy."
The boy looks oddly relieved at the mention of his godfather. Poor child. He has no idea what's coming, when Snape hears of the word he used…
Before I can turn to leave, Hermione tugs at my sleeve. "Professor, could you help Ron first? Please?"
I turn to look at the red-headed boy still retching slugs onto the pitch with a face that looks uglier than crying, "I apologise, Ms Granger" I say gravely, "unfortunately, since that is just a harmless prank curse that has a limited duration, no one has deemed necessary to create a counter curse. I could surely do it, but spell creation is an arduous process, and by the time I finish, the curse would have already ended naturally."
Hermione's crestfallen look, and Ron's panicked one, are enough to stir my heroic instincts. And, of course, there's the matter of my audience. I'm definitely not doing this because I want to show off, no, that's not Gilderoy Lockhart, no sir.
"Very well!" I raise my voice theatrically so everyone can hear me. "Since you insist, an impromptu lesson!"
Students gather closer. Even Malfoy pauses his sulking. I clear my throat. "As many of you know, not every curse has a counter-curse. That's where the general counterspell, Finite Incantatem, comes into play."
I pace slowly, letting my robe swish just so. "It works by flooding the cursed area with pure magical force, overwhelming the enchantment. Naturally, it requires about ten times the original power. Most wizards can only use it on weaker spells. But-" I pause dramatically "-there are exceptions."
"For instance, a certain dark lord, the infamous Gellert Grindelwald, once conjured flames that could have consumed all of Paris. And to prevent this, dozens of witches and wizards gathered to cast Finite Incantatem together to smother the blaze. It's said the night practically turned into day from the glow of so many people using the spell simultaneously."
I can feel the thirst for power radiating from most Slytherins when I mentioned how powerful Grindelwald's spell was, their eyes practically shining with greed.
Whispers ripple through the crowd. I raise my wand.
"Fortunately, Mr. Weasley's problem is slightly less catastrophic," I say with a dazzling grin. "Which means one powerful wizard should suffice. And not to brag, but I just happen to be one such wizard."
I flick my wand. "Finite Incantatem!"
A brilliant golden light explodes outward, momentarily blinding everyone nearby. When the glow fades, Ron blinks, coughing one last slug, and no more slugs follow.
Cheers erupt across the field. The Gryffindors are practically roaring; even a few Slytherins look grudgingly impressed. The Weasley twins hoist their brother onto their shoulders and begin parading him around like a war hero.
"Put me down! I'll be sick again, and not slugs this time!" Ron shouts, flailing desperately.
Hermione beams at me like I've single-handedly saved the day, which, to be fair, I have. Even Malfoy looks conflicted, somewhere between admiration and resentment.
"Well," I say brightly, "that concludes today's lesson. Mr. Malfoy, let's go see Professor Snape. Oh, and Mr Flint," I turn to the hulking Slytherin captain "since I'll be borrowing your Seeker, Gryffindor may keep the pitch for the day."
Flint looks like he's swallowed a flobberworm, while Oliver Wood and the Gryffindor team erupt in another celebration. I make a dignified exit before the noise gives me a headache, Malfoy in tow.
…
The dungeon corridors are cool and damp, the torches sputtering low as I knock on Snape's door. It opens to reveal the man himself; black robes, black hair, blacker mood.
"Lockhart," he says, each syllable dripping disdain. "What possible reason could you have for disturbing me this early?"
"Good morning, Severus," I reply cheerfully. His left eye twitches at my familiar use of his name. "I'm bringing Mr. Malfoy for disciplinary action. He's been… impolite."
Snape narrows his eyes. "What did he do?"
Malfoy, emboldened by his godfather's presence, steps forward. "I just called Granger a Mudblood. What's the big deal? My father says it all the time."
Snape's face goes deathly still. Even I feel the air drop a few degrees. But Malfoy doesn't and keeps digging deeper. "I don't see why I can't call her what she is. People like her shouldn't even be allowed at Hogwarts."
I raise a brow and decide to add more fuel to the flames of Snape's fury. "Funny that," I muse aloud, "this reminds me of an incident from my first year at Hogwarts. A Slytherin boy, a muggle-born Gryffindor girl, one that was considered the smartest of her year, very much like Miss Granger. Oh, and a certain Potter boy nearby…" I glance meaningfully at Snape. "Quite the coincidence, don't you think, Severus?"
For a moment, I think the man might actually explode. His current look could probably scare Neville to death.
"Draco," he says softly, dangerously, "into my office. Now."
"But, Professor…"
"Now!"
Malfoy's protest dies in his throat. He vanishes inside the office like a mouse fleeing a snake. Snape's black gaze swings back to me, venomous. I simply smile.
If he thought a single look would be enough to cower me, he's deeply mistaken, as if I, Gilderoy Lockhart, would be so easily intimidated!
He leans forward slightly. "Sometimes," he says, voice like oil, "people should keep their mouths shut before something… unpleasant finds its way into their pumpkin juice."
"Oh?" I say lightly. "Good thing I don't drink pumpkin juice, then."
His fingers twitch toward his wand. Time to withdraw gracefully.
"Well!" I say brightly. "My duty here is done. I'll leave young Malfoy's punishment in your capable hands, Severus. I'm sure you'll set him straight."
The door slams in my face with a resounding BANG! The torches flicker.
I blink at the wood paneling, then shrug. "Well, he didn't hex me. I'll take that as a win."
And with that, I turn on my heel and make my way back through the echoing corridors with a spring in my step, though, curiously, no quill tucked behind my ear anymore.
…
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